Triumvirate
by West of Bucharest
Summary: Two times in history with parallels, opposites, and voices never admitting their defeat. OC Romania and Hungary historical fic, because I roll like that.


I would like to state again that this Romania is NOT the one is canon. I despise his design with every fiber of my being, and I have had Dragomir's design well before the canon one was released. I refuse to give him up. Of course, me telling that isn't really doing much for you, the reader, getting to know him, so his information is located on tumblr as the user preciouspeace.

Her voice scrapes over Dragomir's eardrums like the squeak of a rusty wheel, and all he can do is sit with his hands folded in his lap, back rigid but head down as she chides and rips on him piece by piece as her newfound partner just stands idly by.

It should be nothing new. Erszebet had tried for so many years—tried to wipe him clean off the map with a sweep of her hand, tried to get him to become just like her, tried to push down and eradicate what made his very fiber but somehow Dragomir has made it this far. Sitting in shame in the foyer, but it is a step up from his previous embarrassment of begging for help against this woman and the Turk and receiving none in response.

"—and it's the fact that your people are getting on my absolute nerves, right, Roderich?" Erszebet turns to look at Roderich, who just nods and eyes Dragomir. Before their union, Dragomir could have honestly cared less about the bespectacled man, all too busy maintaining his sustenance and avoiding being stomped flat by Sadik and Erszebet. "All in all, I'm not even sure my self why I'm wasting my breath on someone like you, Dragomir—"

"Someone like me, do you mean a Romanian?"

"Well of course!"Erszebet scoffed all too conscendingly and sent him a malicious smirk. "Of course I wouldn't mean a Slovak, they don't even belong in a conversation that would spill from my lips. Silly man, with all your people filling up my land, you think because you've become something bigger that you have the ability to stand up to me?"

"That's precisely what I mean,"Dragomir answers bluntly. "After so many years, you can not expect me to just continue being a door mat. Besides, have you not heard the news from France?"

Dragomir reaches into his bag and rustles around for a moment before revealing a length of cloth—closer inspection reveals it as a flag. A tricolor: blue, red, yellow.

"Please etch this into your memory, Erszebet—you finally will fall to my people very soon, and at that time, this will be the flag you fall to your knees under."

—

Looking back now, he was almost right.

Waving in the wind as his men stand at attention in front of the palace is his tricolor—blue, yellow, red—like he vowed, but she is not on her knees.

Perhaps that is because her lapel is tightly gripped between Dragomir's fists and he is holding her up.

They are both war weary. The Soviets have taken their toll on her, and Dragomir is sick of the marches, the crumpled maps strewn throughout the camps that have been set up in various places because they're absolute shit, shit, shit because he's finally won but she's still not on her knees because of him and after all these centuries that's one thing he so craves to see. Just in case he dies, right here, in the middle of Budapest. What a shameful ending that would be.

"Well," she rasps, "you didn't completely win, did you, _vlach_."

Dragomir jerks her, twice, jars her head to shake some godblasted sense into her skull and hisses, blood spattering forth from between his lips where her fist surely knocked a tooth out, "You've completely lost now so just come off your high horse and just admit it; your empire is no more and I, a so called second class citizen! have taken what you say is yours when you have mistreated it, like dirt, for so,he inhales deeply, even his lungs are trembling with so many years of pent-up boiling blood, "so many centuries, Erszebet."

When he sets her down, she looks at him, his troops, them handing out little pieces of food to the populace, them taking transportation means, _her _transportation means from _her_ land, and back to him again.

She has lost.

As a reminder, just a little taste of a returning favor of what he has dealt with at her hands all this time, Dragomir spits blood onto the front of her uniform before swiveling on his feet and following behind his general.

Post-notes**: **This is a rather old fic, my apologies.

Romania was formed first by unifying Wallachia and Moldavia. Obv Hungary got pissed at this and, as they were ruling over Transylvania at that time as the AustroHungarian empire, they basically treated the Romanians like dirt. The reference to students in Paris is about said students supporting the new flag with the new government as a sign of union with Moldavians and Mutenians (Mutenia = Greater Wallachia).  
Vlach = Romanian.  
Romanian-Hungarian War of 1919 is the second part of this. Pretty self explanatory. Romania gained Transylvania from Hungary, then invaded Hungary to make sure they didn't steal it back, won, and toppled the Soviet Republic there at that time. Also, they took lots of transportation from the Hungarians; basically, mass raid. Good job, my boys.


End file.
